


Sweater Weather

by Lies_Unfurl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel (Supernatural) Gets New Clothes, Cold, Dean/Cas Tropefest 5k Mid-Winter Challenge, Human Castiel, Human Castiel in the Bunker, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 13, Valentine's Day, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-20 22:36:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14270997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lies_Unfurl/pseuds/Lies_Unfurl
Summary: Castiel's fashion sense has... changed, ever since he came back from the Empty human. And Dean doesn't like it. Not that he cares what Castiel wears or anything. He's just trying to be a good guy who helps his friend dress in a way that'll eventually get him laid.Right?





	Sweater Weather

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dean/Cas Tropefest Midwinter 5k. Many thanks to the mods for doing this!

“Could you turn up the heat?” asks Castiel.

Dean glances in the dashboard mirror. Cas sits slumped in the back seat. The hat he bought two hunts ago, with the stupidly large pompom, is pulled down to his brows, and his hands are stuck in his coat sleeves. Jack sleeps next to him, head on his shoulder. Probably drooling. Gross.

“It’s already up pretty high, dude.” Dean shed his own jacket a half hour ago, the last time Cas had made the request. Sam, asleep next to him, had briefly woken and muttered something about a nightmare involving a haunted sauna. 

“Then why can I see my breath?”

Dean rolls his eyes and almost points out the fogging windows. Considers making a comment about how Castiel’s penchant for drama and exaggeration had only worsened since he’d come back human from the Empty (case in point: when he refused to speak to Dean for a solid three days after Dean had made a crack about maybe eating something other than PB&J for once, Cas).

But. They’re still a good three hours from home, and if there’s one thing that he _doesn’t_ want to be dealing with, it’s Castiel’s silent glower boring a hole in the back of his head. And Jack doesn’t seem to feel the heat, Sam is sleeping and Dean… well, Dean can deal.

So he reaches over and cranks it up. “That’s as high as it goes.”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah. Hey Cas? Next time we’re in town, do us all a favor and pick up some sweaters, all right?”

*

He doesn’t expect Cas to take his words literally. Actually, he forgets all about the one-off line until the next time they actually do venture into the Lebanon Goodwill, because Sam insists that Jack deserves to have more than one pair of pants.

Cas, Sam, and Jack are all in the men’s section, and taking for-fucking-ever because Jack likes to try on everything. Dean’s flannels have yet to develop holes, meaning that he has no reason to join them. So there he is, puttering around the housewares section and wondering if the plates with the bright orange flowers would fit in well with the bunker kitchen’s color scheme, and also wondering when the hell he became so domesticated that the kitchen’s _color scheme_ is now a legitimate concern. 

“We’re done,” Castiel announces behind him. He turns, and… uh.

There’s Jack, beaming, holding a couple of pairs of carefully-folded jeans. There’s Sam, arms empty.

And then, there’s Cas. Cas, with his arms stacked high with… wool? Wool shirts?

Sweaters, his brain parses a moment later. Ugly sweaters, some dark and monochromatic, some striped, some patterned with diamonds and X’s and dots and snowflakes. Exactly the sort of castaways one would expect to find in a secondhand store.

There have to be at least half a dozen of them. And Cas is glaring at him, like he’s daring him to say something.

He doesn’t rise to the bait. What the fuck. Not like their credit cards are real anyway. 

“All right, Scooby Gang.” He turns around, putting the dishes back on the shelf (the orange? Bad idea. _Definitely_ a bad idea). “Let’s check out.”

*

It’s one thing to see the sweaters piled in Castiel’s arms, a collection of regrets spun from the wool of sheep whose dreams far outweighed their product.

It’s another thing to see Castiel actually wearing them.

And oh boy, does he wear them. Sometimes more than one at a time. 

Dean doesn’t think the bunker is that cold. It really isn’t. Like, he doesn’t actually know how the heating works, and he’s never seen a thermostat anywhere. But it’s comfortable. Room temperature.

Not for Cas. He strolls around in layers the way that Dean strolls around in his bathrobe. Like it’s normal to be wearing a fuzzy winter hat with pompoms inside. Or like it’s normal to be wearing three shirts and still muttering under his breath about how cold it is.

Dean’s kinda worried how this all is going to play out when they go hunting. Thankfully, Cas is wise enough in the ways of humans to leave them at the motel when they’re off being FBI agents. But as soon as they’re back, he ditches his suit in favor of an undershirt and one Ugly. Ass. Sweater.

“Can I wear one?” Jack asks curiously, observing the multitude of garments strewn across Castiel’s bed.

“Of course. Not that one,” Cas adds, holding back on one that’s grey, and… shapeless. Not really any other way to describe it. It’s a pullover and it’s large. Looks like someone’s first attempt in an “Intro to Knitting” class. “I was planning on wearing that.”

“Of course.” Jack frowns, running his fingers over the alternatives, before selecting a particularly ugly alternation of green and lighter-green stripes. Dean almost, _almost_ asks for separate tables in the diner that night, so that no one thinks he’s related to the two walking disasters. But he swallows his pride at the last minute, because he’s a good fucking friend.

It’s like every single day there’s a new sweater. Sometimes they’re sweaters that Dean swears he never saw in the Goodwill pile. Like they’ve been breeding. Or, more probable, like Cas has been sneaking out and buying himself more when Dean isn’t looking.

Not like he’s forbidden from doing that or anything. He’s his own man, and if he wants to go and buy more ugly sweaters, well, that’s his right. Dean doesn’t know why he’d be bothered. Why he’d care about Castiel’s lack of fashion sense.

But. He kind of _does_.

He refuses to psychoanalyze this care too closely. Cas is his _friend_. Friends watch out for their newly-human friends, right? And are conscious of things like fashion mishaps, which would maybe elude a recently-resurrected former celestial wavelength. Dean’s just concerned. Cas will never get laid looking like he does right now.

“I just _love_ your sweater!” chirps their waitress. 

That’s it. Dean _hates_ the sweaters.

*

But.

Like.

It’s not as if he can _say_ anything about them to Castiel. At least not directly. It’s one thing to unbutton Cas’s shirt right before a supposed date. That’s just a friend helping out his friend, right?

It’s another thing to act like Dean cares what Castiel is wearing. He really, really doesn’t. He just hates the sweaters so much that he’s willing to make a few exceptions to his carefully-crafted rules of masculinity.

He decides to take a subtle approach. It would probably weird Cas out if Dean went right up to him and told him his sartorial senses were lacking.

“We having an ugly sweater contest?” he asks one morning when Cas and Jack enter the kitchen for breakfast, Cas in a light blue button-up that has what Dean thinks are supposed to be snowflakes embroidered all over it, and Jack in one that’s just… yellow. Very yellow. “Cause no one told me. I’m feeling underdressed.”

“Castiel has plenty you can borrow,” Jack replies eagerly, quickly following up with, “What’s an ugly sweater contest?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. Buncha people wear ugly sweaters. Whoever’s got the ugliest wins.”

Jack frowns, looking down at his sunny fashion snafu. “I don’t think it’s ugly.”

“It isn’t,” Cas replies, pouring himself some coffee. “Dean is just jealous because he didn’t pick up any sweaters when we were out last time, and now he’s cold and grumpy.”

Dean sputters out some crumbs of toast. “What? No. Uh-uh. I’m perfectly warm in my bathrobe, thank you very much. Just wondering why you’ve gone all Mister Rogers, is all.” 

“Who’s Mister Rogers?”

Sam snorts, coming in from his run just in time to hear the question. “The one consistent presence in my childhood. Besides you,” he adds, before Dean can start in on him. “He had a show for kids that used to air on public television. Which was usually all we had, since most of the places we stayed in weren’t classy enough for cable.”

Jack nods. “Can we watch it?”

“You can,” Dean says, getting up to stick in some toast for Sam. “I promised myself if I ever heard that theme song again I’d put a bullet through whatever screen it was playing on.”

“Dean dislikes wholesome things,” Sam supplies helpfully. “But I don’t have any plans today. Cas? What do you say? Hot chocolate and Mr. Rogers marathon in my room?”

“That sounds lovely,” Cas replies, before asking in an overly-innocent voice, “Dean? Are you sure you won’t join us?”

Dean grits his teeth. Mission failed. 

 

Jack spends the next week humming “It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood,” and Dean vows to rid Castiel’s wardrobe of all sweaters.

*

So he tries being a little less subtle. And a bit more… active.

After he “accidentally” shrinks one sweater and bleaches another, Castiel announces that he’s not allowed to do laundry.

“You do the dishes when it’s my turn. I’ll do the laundry when it’s your turn.” He glares at Dean, holding his significantly smaller sweater in tight fists.

Dean shrugs, his face carefully schooled into impartiality. “Whatever, man. I don’t know what you’ve got against washing dishes anyway.”

“Wet food,” Castiel replies before stalking out of the library, probably to go into town and buy even more sweaters.

Sam, sitting across from him, has watched the whole incident with interest. “You’ve been in charge of the laundry since you were, like, six years old.”

“Yeah.” Five, actually, but he doesn’t think the correction is necessary. “And?”

“Just wondering why you’ve lost the skill. Old age, or something else.” 

Sam fixes him with a piercing stare that Dean isn’t entirely sure how to read. He says as much, and Sam rolls his eyes. “Cas’s fashion sense changes. You suddenly start messing up the laundry. Just saying, it’s a weird coincidence.”

It suddenly seems like a really good idea to go and look for a new case in his bedroom. Dean stands. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sam rolls his eyes again. “Of course.”

*

December progresses into January and Dean’s patience further regresses as Castiel rebukes all his attempts to teach him basic fashion sensibility.

“Dude, you are never gonna get laid in that,” he mutters as Cas comes into the kitchen in a baggy forest green pullover with a pink (pink!) shirt underneath. “Not unless she’s into Ned Flanders, in which case you might get something, neighborino.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and pours himself coffee. “Remarkably, that isn’t everyone’s goal, Dean.”

“Yeah? Since when?”

Jack walks in then, and Dean drops the topic, because he hasn’t had The Talk with Jack, and he doesn’t particularly care to learn if Sam or Cas has.

He gets back to work a few days later, when Cas shows up wearing way too many layers. An undershirt? Sure. A collared shirt on top? Kind of preppy, but okay. The tight gray sweater, which even Dean would reluctantly admit was _slightly_ more flattering than his usual potato sacks? Pushing it, but fine, it was kind of cold out.

The evergreen-and-cream cardigan with silver buttons? Nah. Too much.

“You warm enough there, Cas?”

Cas doesn’t turn away from the Keurig. “I’m all right, thank you for asking.”

“You sure? ‘cause I gotta say, you might be able to fit another layer on.”

Dean can _feel_ Castiel rolling his eyes, but he stays preoccupied with the machine. “I’m perfectly comfortable. We are living in an underground bunker, and it is the middle of winter. I think I’m entitled to find it a bit chilly.”

“If you say so, Catlyn.”

Cas faces him now, frowning. “I don’t understand—”

“’cause you’re from warmer climes and you’ve moved to the cold? Never mind. Forget it.” It’s a weak reference. Dean stalks out of the kitchen, blowing on his coffee and trying to think of pop culture figures who wear sweaters. He’s gotta step up his game.

 

He does. There’s the Dude. Freddy Krueger (Cas gets that one. He Does Not Like It). Waldo, even when Castiel isn’t wearing one of several striped sins that he owns, because Cas got genuinely pissed off and insisted that there was no way Waldo was _actually_ in any of those images, when Jack brought a book home from Goodwill.

“What’ve you got against Cas’s sweaters?” Sam asks at one point.

He shrugs. “They’re fugly, dude. I don’t wanna be out in public with a guy who looks like he’s trying to pull off the sexy librarian look, except he forgot the sexy part.”

Sam stares at him, then shakes his head. “You’re an ass.”

“I’m a better friend than you are!”

Sam rolls his eyes and goes back his laptop. “All I’m saying is, cut the guy some slack. He’s allowed to take his time easing into humanity.”

“Yeah, and he’s gonna do it in style,” Dean snaps back, earning himself another eye roll and silence from his brother for the rest of the night.

*

In early January, Dean goes too far.

Like most mornings, they’re all sitting around in the kitchen. Dean’s grilling up some French toast, which even Sam is practically salivating for. Jack is reading Dear Abby on Sam’s laptop (he’s taken a strange liking to advice columns. Dean’s stopped wondering about it).

Enter Castiel. “Morning, Cas,” Dean says, not looking up immediately as he flips the bread. Cas grumbles a reply as he pours some coffee and pulls out a chair. Its legs screech against the floor and Dean almost says something about it, but he knows how to pick his battles.

When the first round of French toast is sufficiently charred at its edges, Dean lowers the heat below the griddle and begins stacking slices onto a crowded plate. “Breakfast is served,” he announces, spinning around and slipping the dish into the center of the table in one smooth move.

Except that he almost drops it when he sees Castiel. He’s currently burrowing into a cable knit turtleneck, still looking grumpy despite the mug of steaming coffee that he’s holding. And the sweater is… is…

Orange.

Fresh carrot orange. Orange juice orange. Bright, traffic-cone orange, made all the more garish by Castiel’s pale skin. Like a highlighter leaked over every inch of it.

“Off to join the Scooby gang, Velma?” Dean asks.

And.

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Castiel slams the coffee mug down on the table, hard enough that some water splashes over the side and onto his hand. He apparently doesn’t notice as he stands so quickly his chair crashes to the ground.

“ _What_ is your problem?” he snarls.

Dean is frozen beneath the malevolence in Castiel’s eyes and voice. Sam and Jack are tensed up too, Jack looking like he’s a moment away from flitting elsewhere, the way he usually does when conflict arises between them. 

“Sorry, dude,” he says, raising his hands. “Didn’t realize you were so attached to it.”

“It’s not about –” Cas rips the sweater off and throws it on the floor, atop the toppled chair. He’s wearing another, lighter sweater beneath, which Dean would normally make a joke about, but something tells him that now is _not_ the time.

“I’m sorry my choice of attire has been so offensive to you,” he snaps. “Forgive me. For most of my existence, I’ve had a divine spark burning within me. I’m sure you’ll understand if I find humanity a bit chilly.”

He and Dean stare at each other for a moment, Cas’s chest heaving like he’s just climbed a mountain. Dean can smell the remaining French toast burning behind him, but he can’t bring himself to look away from the accusation and anger and something suspiciously close to hurt that rages in Castiel’s eyes.

Castiel breaks away first, shaking his head. “I’ll be working in my room today,” he mutters as he storms out of the kitchen, not even bothering to right his fallen chair.

Jack makes as though he’s about to go after him, but Sam stops him with a hand on his arm. No one speaks.

Dean turns back to the griddle, numb as he slips the rest of the now overly-charred slices onto a plate. He grabs the syrup from the fridge and turns back around to find Sam and Jack still staring at him.

“What?” he snaps, instantly feeling guilty even as Sam’s eyes turn from inscrutable to judgmental. Jack still looks like he’s about to either fly away or cry, or both.

“I’m sorry,” Dean mumbles. He straightens Castiel’s chair. “I didn’t mean… I’ll talk to him.”

“Maybe not right away,” Sam says. 

*

Sam is right, as he so often, infuriatingly is. So Dean waits an entire hour before he knocks on the door to Castiel’s room.

He doesn’t expect Cas to answer. Cas’s preferred brand of drama tends towards the silent treatment (see: the solid three days Cas went without speaking to him after Dean made a joke about the preponderance of peanut butter and jelly in Cas’s diet).

So yeah, he’s pretty surprised when Cas opens his door, even more so because Cas doesn’t look all that surprised to see him. On the contrary, the dour expression on his face suggests that he knew it was Dean at the door, and that he knows where this conversation is going. 

It doesn’t escape Dean’s notice that he’s no longer wearing any sweater. Just a t-shirt and sweatpants. Even at a distance, Dean can see the goosebumps on his arms.

“Hey,” Dean says. He holds out the orange sweater. “You, uh, you left this in the kitchen.”

Cas’s frown deepens, but he takes the sweater. So that’s something.

Dean sighs, scratching at the back of his head. Thing is, he knows how to placate Sam when a prank war goes too far. He’s not stupid, or oblivious. 

But Cas is and always has been an emotional enigma. Hell, Dean’s pretty sure that he doesn’t understand his own emotions most of the time, which, fair enough. Spending millennia as an angel will do that to you.

Just… he’s lost for words. Or gestures. A clap on the back and a “Sorry” isn’t going to cut it, even though Cas might act like it does.

When Cas raises an eyebrow, he realizes that he’s been silent for entirely too long. “Can I come in?”

Cas actually straight-up _rolls his eyes_ at that. “I don’t think that’s necessary.” He holds up a hand before Dean can go on. “I get it. I know that my choice of attire isn’t… standard, and that’s amusing to you. Your comments didn’t come from a place of harm. I’m overreacting, and I know that. I just want to be alone.”

He turns to go back inside, but freezes when Dean grasps his shoulder. “I wasn’t going to say you were overreacting.”

“I am,” he mutters, looking away.

“No. Look, man, you’re allowed to be pissed at me. Even if it’s over something dumb. Not that I’m saying this is dumb. But. I know the past few months have been pretty rough, okay? Dying’s like that.” What sort of a fucked-up life is he living that he can say that in complete seriousness? “And I know that coming back human doesn’t help any. I can’t imagine what you’re going through, and I’m sorry. I should’ve been more understanding.”

Cas sighs. He opens his mouth, closes it, and then steps to the side.

Heart suddenly pounding, Dean accepts the obvious invitation. As Cas closes the door and goes to hang the sweater up in his closet, he realizes he has a) no idea what he’s going to say, and b) no idea where to stand. He settles for hovering near Cas’s nightstand, looking at the pictures he has in cheap dollar-store frames. They’re all of him or Sam or Jack.

Cas comes around to stand at the other side of the bed. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at Dean expectantly. Like Dean should know what he’s doing. Why he came here.

Dean puts down the picture he was looking at – Sam and Jack laughing together about something – and meets Cas’s eyes. “Hey. I really am sorry.”

“I know you are.” Cas glances away again. “I’m sorry for my… outburst. You didn’t deserve that.”

“I dunno. I might’ve.” He takes a risk and sits down on Castiel’s bed, patting the mattress to let Cas know he can join. He does, sitting at a careful distance from Dean and playing with a bit of yarn fraying from the garish blue and green afghan on top of his bed.

There are several blankets, actually. Dean doesn’t go in here a lot, so he hadn’t noticed, but there are at least three on top of the comforter, and an old patchwork quilt folded at the foot of the bed. He wonders what else he’s missed.

“Look, you know I’m no good at this, but if you ever want to talk, I’m here. After you pulled me out from Hell I didn’t really talk to anyone about it. I mean. We weren’t exactly friends, and Sam was going through his own shit, and I wasn’t going to unload my angst on Bobby. But being resurrected isn’t easy. And I probably could’ve saved myself a lot of grief if I had just told someone how… how weird it was. How I felt like I didn’t deserve it, yeah, but also the tiny things. How I felt like I was choking every time I breathed air that wasn’t full of sulfur. Or, I dunno, how weird it felt to feel the sun on my skin. Because I’d been in the dark for so long.”

Cas watches him intently, a bit too much sympathy in his eyes for Dean’s comfort. He hastily adds, “But this isn’t about me. I’ve dealt. But you’ve got the extra burden of having come back a species you aren’t used to being. You don’t have to talk to me; I get if you’re mad. But I’m just saying. You can if you want to.”

He shuts up, finally, meeting Cas’s eyes. Cas studies him for a few seconds longer, then sighs and looks back down at the blanket.

“It was cold last time. But I thought that might have just been the situation. Being on the streets. And I forgot all about it after I got my – well, someone’s – grace back.

“But then, when I was in the Empty, it was… freezing feels like an inadequate word to describe it. There was nothing there to generate heat. _Nothing._ Just a cold ache of knowing how alone I was. And when I came back, and I couldn’t feel my grace – it was like… like I’d left part of myself back there. Or, more accurately, like I’d brought a piece of the Empty back inside with me.” He draws his bare arms closer to his chest, and if Dean didn’t feel like an ass before, he’s about ready to change his name to Eeyore now.

“Shit. I’m sorry, Cas.” He wants to touch Cas, to reassure him, to be there for him, but he doesn’t know if that would be welcome. Cas still isn’t looking at him.

“When I wake up at night, and I’m alone, I often feel I never left there.” Castiel shifts, sitting up straighter and rubbing his arms. “And I guess part of me, my grace, never did. The absence can be overwhelming.” He finally glances at Dean and shrugs, a wry smile turning up his lip. “I don’t mind being human, really. The sweaters help.”

Dean nods and, impulsivity overcoming his caution, rubs his hand up and down Cas’s arm. “If I’d know, I would’ve just stuck to switching out your sugar packets for salt.”

Cas glares, and Dean knows then that they’ll be okay.

Which doesn’t mean that he’s out of the woods yet.

He heads into town later that day, an old memory tickling his brain, just starting to form into an idea.

*

So maybe it’s Valentine’s Day when he finishes. It’s not _intentional_. Hell, he doesn’t even know what day it is until Sam comes into breakfast that morning and gives him shit for not making the pancakes heart-shaped. And until Jack gives him a stupid, sappy card with a poorly-composed poem about how great it is to have him in his life. That maybe goes in the fireproof safe Dean keeps under his bed, where he puts all his most important things.

He puts it off all day, not wanting to weird Cas out. But then it’s nighttime, and Sam is calling out, “Sweet dreams!” to Cas. And Cas just gives this wan little smile, and says he’ll try, and that does it.

Cas looks kind of surprised when he opens his door. He’s already in the set of flannel pajamas he treated himself to after a particularly trying hunt, and there’s something about having Castiel, a former angel, standing in front of him in plaid pajamas that does weird fucking things to Dean’s chest.

Dean thrusts the package wrapped in yellow tissue paper at him. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he blurts out. “I mean. It’s not a _Valentine’s Day_ Valentine’s Day gift. I mean. It’s not chocolate or flowers. But it’s a gift. For you. On Valentine’s Day.”

Cas stares at the package for a moment before carefully running his finger under the tape, somehow managing to not tear the paper in the process. His eyes widen as he realizes what it is. “Dean, this--”

“It’s been awhile since I tried to knit. This old lady who babysat Sam and I for a few months, when we were kids? She taught me, just so I wouldn’t keep getting into trouble. And the left arm is kinda shorter than the right--”

Cas cuts him off by pulling him in close and hugging him, his cheek pressed against Dean’s. He’s still holding the sweater that Dean knit him, and Dean can feel the soft scratch of the wool against his neck. “It’s perfect, Dean. Thank you so much.”

Dean manages to cough out a laugh, which is hopefully convincing enough that Cas doesn’t notice how much those words actually meant to him. “No problem. I, uh, thought the color would look good on you.”

The second sentence comes out unexpectedly, but at least it isn’t a confession of how he chose the darker blue because he thought it would bring out Castiel’s eyes. That’s something that he’ll take to his final grave.

Cas steps back. Dean tries not to feel that as a loss. 

“Thank you,” he repeats. “It looks – warm.”

Dean nods. “Yeah. Uh, that’s kinda what I was going for. And hey, uh, Cas…” he rubs the back of his neck. Cas waits patiently, hugging the sweater to his chest. “If you ever want to talk about things, I’m here. I know I said that before, but I just wanted to remind you. And, uh, it doesn’t matter what time it is. If you can’t sleep, or you wake up freaked out or whatever. You can get me. I promise I won’t pull a gun on you.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Cas says, but there’s a twinkle and something knowing in his eyes. “Thank you, Dean. Truly.”

Dean nods and claps Castiel’s shoulder. “‘Course. Sleep well, Cas.”

“Thank you. You too. And – happy Valentine’s Day, Dean.” Cas gives him a rare genuine smile, the one where the skin around his eyes crinkles and his expression is soft and almost fond. 

“Thanks. You too, Cas.”

They look at each other for another moment, until Dean coughs and smiles, and then hurries down the hallway, something warm blossoming in his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> find me, befriend me, and be bitter about queerbaiting with me at [ my Tumblr.](http://lies-unfurl.tumblr.com)


End file.
